Your skin
by MTraverAndujar
Summary: Your touch is healing. Your touch is frightening.
1. Your skin

His quarters are dark. There is no light, no sound; no sign of his presence other than the faint echo of his scent which is a permanent inhabitant of those rooms, never quite fading away entirely. A scent that always hits her with all the warmth of a homecoming; one that can shift her mood in a split second no matter how tough her day has been, how drained her body is, or how upset she felt before crossing that threshold. Laura blinks a couple of times, trying to get her eyes used to the almost total absence of light.

"Bill, it's me."

Her tentative call is met with silence. She swallows and reaches out to the light switch. She hesitates, though. The guards have confirmed that he is inside. This makes her reluctant. If he is here then he… he wants this darkness. Maybe he is asleep. Maybe…

Laura lets her hand fall again as something that feels too much like fear clutches as her stomach. Her heart starts pounding faster. Slowly, her eyes get used to the shadowy room and her pupils scan and recognize the familiar shapes of chairs, shelves, lamps. She looks for signs.

She immediately sees it.

Laura gasps. Her throat goes thick.

"Gods, Bill."

Bill's model ship has been reduced to a million pieces scattered on the floor, all over the place. Laura feels the muscles of her face contract and the sting of tears in her eyes. She lifts a hand to her mouth to hold back a sob. Slowly, she walks in, careful not to tread upon the wooden fragments. As much as she would like to, she cannot discard her shoes without risking a wound or a cut. Her heels click on the deck as she moves further into Bill's quarters and struggles to keep her balance.

She stops, gets upright, looks around. She spots a yellowish light coming from the next room. Suddenly hopeful, she takes a few small steps in that direction.

There he is.

He is sitting by his desk but he is neither working nor writing: the chair faces the bulkhead. His back is turned to the hatch, to the room. To her. To the universe. His shoulders are slumped forward. His elbow rests on the wooden surface; his arm is flexed; his face is buried in his big palm. His other hand rests on the arm of the chair like a forgotten property. Carefully, she gets a little closer. As she walks towards Bill the dim light of the lamp gradually reveals more of him. Now she can notice that he is in just his tank tops and trousers; she spots the uniform jacket discarded and jumbled on the deck in the most unmilitary, unlike-Bill manner. The long shadows of both the desk and the man creep across the floor almost down to her toes. She approaches him carefully from behind. It would not have been gentler if she had been tiptoeing.

He does not move. She cannot be sure he has heard her.

Laura stays standing there, holding her breath, unsure about her next move. He looks so locked into himself. His bulk reminds her of a lifeless, sturdy rock; a big, proud animal of the ocean found dead on the sand of a lost beach. She feels the need to warn him. She does not want to startle him although she seriously doubts that anything could bring him back from his stupor.

She needs to try.

"Bill, it's me. It's Laura. I… I'm going to touch you."

She outstretches a trembling hand. She leaves it hanging there, an inch over his shoulder, floating like a thin, still cloud. After a few last seconds of doubt, her fingers find his skin as quietly as an autumn leave falls to the ground. She holds her breath and waits. Bill does not move. If it were not for his breathing and the awkward posture of his body she could have thought him asleep. When he does not reject her touch, she starts rubbing his shoulder with her thumb in a comforting gesture.

"I'm so sorry." Her voice comes out strangled. She is having trouble breathing.

Her own physical reaction registers with her. She had felt shocked and deeply saddened when she learned about Lieutenant Thrace's death. However, that was nothing compared to what she is experiencing now. Realization sinks in: this man's grief affects her more than someone else's death. She is not sure this is right; she ponders if the President of the Colonies still has her priorities straight. But it is what it is. She shrugs inwardly. She does not give a frak. By this point in her life she has done far worse things. By caring so deeply about everything and everyone, at some point she must have earned her right to care the most about whatever (whomever) her heart holds dear.

"You shouldn't have come."

It feels like someone else's voice. It does not even feel like a voice. Rather, it is a hollow sound coming from the bottom of a tomb, from the depths of a black hole, from a place no living human should ever have to visit.

It is not the rich, gravely sound she loves and suddenly she misses it so much. She feels a void opening up under her feet, threatening to swallow her whole. Where will she find him if this is not him anymore?

Yet… he has spoken.

She smiles coyly even if he cannot see her. At least, she has managed to draw some kind of response from his defeated form. Encouraged, she dares to lift her hand from his shoulder and run her fingers through his hair. It feels so soft; the contrast with the physical and emotional harshness he otherwise exudes is so sharp she feels a sudden urge to cry. Gradually, she puts more intention in her touch.

He still does not reject her.

"Thought you could use a friend."

He does not reply, does not look up; his eyes remain hidden in his palm. After a few seconds, a tear breaks free and slides down his cheek. He neither sobs nor shakes; he does not utter a sound. It would almost seem as if that droplet has escaped his eyelids taking advantage of his complete exhaustion, or as if it just were the last one left to shed. Laura feels the salty tide of her own tears cloud her vision. She bites her lower lip.

Slowly, she walks around him until she is standing in front of him, her knees almost brushing his. She does not break their contact; rather, she runs her palm down his arm in passing and then up again to his shoulder. He parts his legs and she steps between them with a timid move forward. Her thumb strokes his jaw. Her other hand rises to the crown of his head and rests there as if she were blessing him.

Finally, he lifts his head from his palm and extends his arm letting it fall on the desk. Fatigue. Devastation. He has trouble adjusting to his surroundings, to the soft light; as if he were just back from a long trip, from another world, from a cell he would have been confined to for an eternity. He still refuses to look up at her but at least he is now letting her witness the full extent of his pain; the traces, some of them everlasting, that it has left on his features.

Her breath catches at the sight of such utter sorrow. She lifts her hands to his cheeks, finds them wet and soft, strokes them lovingly.

"I'm so sorry, Bill." She repeats. She feels a tear tickling its way down her own cheek.

She cannot quite tell if it is the quiver in her voice that does the trick, or maybe the water in her throat that turns her voice raspy. At last, Bill looks up and meets her eyes with a glassy glance. She does not know if Bill ever felt desperate over anything when he was a little boy, but if he ever did, it is this little boy who is looking at her now. The tough, seasoned admiral is nowhere to be found. Slowly, Bill's hands rise to her hips and stay there, like gently rooting himself to her, rooting her to that spot in front of him, within his reach.

This simple touch feels already much more intimate than nearly anything they have done so far.

'I'm losing everyone I love.'

Her eyes narrow in understanding, taking in his immense pain. He is not even struggling with it or rebelling against the fate at this point. He is just lost. A few moments pass before she shakes her head in sweet denial.

"I'm here."

As a wordless reply, he brings her closer and presses his forehead against the curve of her belly, his arms wrapping around her waist. She winds her arms around his broad shoulders and lets her head fall forward, eyes closed, just breathing, letting the air out of her lungs in relief, letting him cling to her, letting their deep, intimate connection get reestablished again.

A glass bell descends over them leaving everything else outside. A few seconds pass like this, both quiet and silent, wrapped in each other. Then she bends forward and kisses his forehead. He accepts her kiss with his eyes closed and she lingers, wanting him to feel the full extent of her affection, willing it to break through the cold walls of his grief.

It comes to her like an impulse and she follows it without haste or hesitation. She brushes her lips from his forehead to his closed eyelids. They taste salty. Then she moves further down. Cradling his head in her hands, she pulls his face up and touches her lips to his. It is gentle; warm rather than burning, comforting rather than seductive. It is a kiss meant to heal. In that it is no different from the one she received from him that day when she promoted him; that day that now feels like it belonged to someone else, to another life they lost, too, when they thought they could lose nothing else. It is just about the touch, about the contact. She lingers and if he is surprised he does not show. Slowly, her touch breaks through the fog in his soul and his lips react and respond. His hands cling tighter to her hips. Carefully, without parting her mouth from his, she allows him to pull her even closer until the only way of not breaking the kiss is sitting down on his thigh.

She complies.

His mouth tastes of salt, too; his tongue leaves its cave to engage in a slow dance with hers. He lets out a soft grunt, she replies plunging further, going deeper. She is so focused that she does not notice it immediately when his fingers start tugging at her shirt to free it from the waist of her skirt. It does not register with her at first, either, when his warm palms sneak under the fabric and start stroking the skin of her waist, of her back. They are almost immobile, just resting on her flesh, his thumbs barely tracing lazy circles.

A few seconds later, Bill's hands start sliding up her sides.

She withdraws from their kiss and lets out a ragged sigh. He draws back slowly and lets his hands fall down to the waist of her skirt, where his touch turns innocent again. She can tell he is not sure what to make of her little sound, of his own impulsive actions. The latter have brought him back to reality; the former has given him pause. To be honest, she is not quite sure of anything herself, either. However, as inconvenient as it might seem (as scary, even, given the situation) this feels just natural.

As her breathing evens out, she opens her eyes slowly just to find herself plunging in his blue depths.

"I'm sorry, Laura."

She is not sure what to reply but she is not offended. She hopes he can see that. He lowers his eyes, regretful. He is so lost, all of his usual resources gone. If his soul were just a little less numb he would realize that he is yet to trespass a line that she is not willing to cross, too. Tenderness hits her so hard she almost startles.

"That… was not right."

"Ssssh." She lays her hand against his cheek and cracks a small smile. "It wasn't wrong, either."

"I just… I need to feel your skin. I needed to feel you."

Her heart shatters in a million pieces. It is all there: his desperation, his longing. His need, raw and unashamed before her; a sight that also sends all her defenses crumbling and lays her own desire bare before him. She did not expect this turn of events. Despite this, she does not need to reflect very long to make up her mind. Her throat goes dry at the thought but she has no doubt. None whatsoever.

She starts unbuttoning her shirt. His eyes dart up to hers. She keeps his gaze laced with hers as she proceeds. Slow but resolute, she pushes the small, round buttons through their holes one by one. Bill looks astonished, mesmerized by the movement of her fingers. When she finishes she leaves the shirt half open, both halves hanging loosely and revealing a narrow line of creamy skin and the soft swell of her bra-clad breasts between them. She looks up at him. It is an invitation, almost a challenge; a call for him to take what he needs. She would not do this if not for him and it is not like she has not wanted this, him, for years now. She can easily disregard her own needs over and over again until she finds herself on her deathbed, but she cannot deny him; especially not when he is suffering like this. The realization that she could do anything for this man, even things she would not do for herself, flashes through her mind. It is both frightening and liberating.

"Laura…"

She takes one of his hands and sets it against the skin of her abdomen, right below her breasts.

"I…" he stammers. "I don't want to use you."

"Bill, I want this. You're not taking anything I wouldn't want to give you. You're not using me."

His brow is tied with concern, his gaze dark with the effort to grasp what is happening. He is far from convinced.

"I'm… I'm not okay. If this, if we… I might hurt you, Laura. I don't want…"

The wave of tenderness hits her full force again. His grief, his raw need, is her undoing. She understands what he is saying. He feels confused, clumsy, inappropriate, his judgment clouded. He might be rough without meaning to; he might not be able to control himself once they get this started, to care about her pleasure as much as about his own. He might not even function. He is in no condition to do this properly. He does not want this to be just about his release, about his sorrow. He cannot bear the thought of leaving her empty, hurt, or disappointed.

Now, she is more willing than ever to take the risk. She knows he would never hurt her on purpose: she can accept that it might happen accidentally, and she will expose herself to it without a flinch if this is what he needs, if this is the one thing that can bring him back, that can restore his soul a little. After all the painful things, both physical and emotional, that she has had to endure in the last few years, the prospect of maybe ending up a little hurt in these circumstances, doing this with Bill at last, giving herself to him to calm his sorrow… It feels achingly sweet.

If it happens, if he causes her pain, she will take it. The burden of grief will thus be shared between them and it will be liberating for them both.

Which is the whole point of all this.

Her chest rises and falls sharply at the thought.

She knows better than to tell him this, though. It would destroy him. He would never have it and it would leave him alone and cold in his cloud of sorrow. She precisely says the words Bill needs to hear.

"You would never hurt me, Bill. It won't happen. And I wouldn't let you. I'll make you stop."

He plunges into her eyes, his gaze dark and intense as if he were not entirely sure that she is not making up a gentler version of the possible consequences; as if he were trying to read the truth right in her soul.

"I trust you." She manages in a choked whisper.

"You… you wouldn't do this if it… if it weren't for me."

"True." She admits.

 _But it doesn't mean I want it any less._

She regards him calmly, a knowing smile playing on her lips. She can read in his eyes the exact moment he finally gives in; the moment he decides he can trust her, too. Bill swallows and reaches out. Slowly, he parts the halves of her shirt. He rakes a path on her skin with his knuckles: he goes from her jaw down her neck, passes between her breasts, down her abdomen. He follows it with his eyes, then looks up to meet her gaze again.

Laura swallows and nods.

"This is not quite how I thought it would be when we finally did this."

It hits her: this is his voice again. Grave, rich, magnetic. The admission implicit in those few, simple words is so sincere, so huge. Her expression acquires a wistful note as some warm current spreads through her veins.

"Nothing in our lives is quite as we expected, is it?" She looks through and past him, momentarily dwelling a world that no longer exists, pondering how much a lost homeland and a lost existence relate to each other; how many times one can die and be reborn as both the same person and someone else. Once you are left with nothing, once you face a new future, you find a new self. "But unexpected does not have to be the same as bad."

He strokes her hair, cups her cheek and regards her intensely. His eyes have come alive as if he were discovering her, really seeing her for the first time since she arrived. She leans into his touch, then turns her head and kisses his palm.

And she meets his gaze. The air stills waiting for her to speak.

"Take me."

The gentleness and affection of their recent actions have not prepared him for these two words. Bill's eyes darken, deeper than ever. She feels a wave of vertigo as she looks into them, ready to fall in their abyss. She knows that she needs to find a rougher note, to make it more provocative. This is about breaking through his pain; now, this is going to take something strong. Sweetness alone will not do the trick. She wants to provoke him, to challenge him; to help him release his anger, his grief.

Bill outstretches both of his hands. His fingertips brush the rim of the open shirt before gently tugging at it and parting its halves further. His thumbs push the fabric over her shoulders until it falls down her back and arms to just above her elbows. Her arms stay trapped on the sleeves, his hands rest on her now bare shoulders. She can barely hold Bill's intense gaze.

When she finally manages a breath, it is shallow and ragged.

Bill leans forward. His face moves closer until she can feel the warm air from his breath on her own skin. He is close, so close. His eyes fall down to her lips, then lock with hers again: his final question, one last warning before proceeding, her last chance to retreat.

Laura closes her eyes. Anticipation sends a rush of electricity along her spine.

The next thing she feels is his nose brushing her cheek, then a kiss to the corner of her mouth, then the rough skin of his cheek against hers again, testing its suppleness, making a contrast. As he nuzzles her hair, the sound of his breath penetrates her ears. Another kiss is pressed to the side of her neck. Then, he draws a trail down to her collarbone which he prolongs up to her shoulder. His powerful hands still hold her arms, keeping her in place.

She tilts her head to the side to grant him access and her lips part with a soft gasp. His grip tightens: her small sound seems to fuel his resolve, send his apprehension and restraint out of the airlock. She hears a sharp intake of breath, then Bill draws another pattern of kisses up her neck to the spot behind her ear. He gently blows a lock of her hair aside to uncover her neck further and Laura feels herself tingle from head to toes. He is focused and intense, in this as in everything else. Shivers course through Laura's entire body from the point where Bill's lips and tongue taste her exposed neck. She wriggles despite her best intentions. She had promised herself not to do anything that might discourage him, nothing that would make him stop. Now she is sweetly resisting, trying to free her arms, but his grip is too tight and she cannot and she really does not want to, she hopes he knows that.

She knows he does when, instead of stopping, he doubles the force he is using to keep her in place. He buries his face in the crook of her neck. His teeth replace his tongue.

She is not sure she can take it much longer.

She never thought that making herself vulnerable for this man would make her feel so complete. This was supposed to be about his grief but now she is caught up in his intensity. This pleasure is overwhelming, frightening.

Bill stops and loosens his hold on her arms. He withdraws from her. Something must be wrong. Hit by a sudden, unforgiving cold, she cracks her eyes open.

The smile grazing his features is worth all of this already.

Bill lowers his hands to her hips and pulls to make her stand up. He does so, too, in a move synchronized with hers. His arms slide around her waist to the small of her back. Laura feels the tug at the zipper of her skirt, hears the creak as it slides open. A few seconds later, the garment falls to the floor. She swallows as she steps out of it, abandoning also her heels in the process. She holds onto Bill's belt for support as she kicks the bundle aside with her foot.

They are too close for Bill to actually see her.

Holding her breath, she pulls back, looks up and searches his eyes.

The nakedness she feels has little to do with clothes. She feels her skin flush.

Bill does not seem to be holding up much more easily, though. Something almost feral in those dark depths makes her heart skip a beat.

"Gods, Laura." He rasps, suffocated. And it is shock and praise, and disbelief, and gratitude, and almost a prayer.

She blushes and smiles. Her sole response is a gentle tug at his buckle. He complies.

He does, and soon his tank tops, trousers and shoes succumb to the same fate as her skirt and heels mere seconds earlier. His attention is drawn back to her as soon as he overcomes the obstacle of his own garments blocking the way of his desires.

He pulls at the sleeves of her shirt and frees her arms at last. The fabric lands on the floor, light and soundless like a feather. There is just their underwear left on, and that can never be too much of a barrier. Not anymore. It will fall in due time.

Laura cannot suppress her own smile at the sight of his. An almost boyish grin graces his features, and she marvels at how swiftly his mood keeps changing, and this thing between them has them walking the entire palette of emotions, and this is a Bill she has hardly ever seen before, and also one she hopes she will get to see more often from now on.

He cups her face in his hands and it feels as if her head always belonged in that safe space his palms create. His hands are its best fitting mold, the only place in the entire universe where it can lie down and rest.

Then he lets them fall, wraps his arms around her waist and embraces her impossibly close. Skin against skin.

Just as he had said he needed.

Laura releases all the air in her lungs as he holds her tighter. Her breasts press against his chest; her palms feel the muscles of his back tense as he closes his embrace around her, claiming her, anchoring himself to her. Laura's cheek presses against the smoothness of the scar that runs down his chest. She kisses it and feels him shudder. She loves that scar. It is distinctly his. It saved him. It keeps him whole.

He withdraws slowly. Much to Laura's surprise he turns and sits on the chair again. He pulls at her hands encouraging her to resume her earlier position, sitting on his thigh. She complies laying down a hand on his shoulder for balance. She searches for his eyes. If only she could read his mind. But right now she cannot, even if he reciprocates and gives her his eyes too. Maybe it is just because this is new, because she does not know him in this yet. She cannot quite guess him.

She waits, holding her breath.

Bill's arm coils itself around her waist and hips. His free hand finds her belly and stays there for a couple of seconds. She can feel her own pulse against his palm. It is both electrifying and soothing.

Then his hand moves lower. And lower.

Laura startles and her eyes open wide, his intentions suddenly clear as day. The arm around her waist tightens its grip making it perfectly clear that he wants her to stay quiet, to take every drop of what he is about to give her. She gasps. Her hand grips his shoulder so tight that her nails dig in his flesh. Her head falls forward. He stops, close to his target but not quite there yet. Of course; he must have noticed she needs a little time. Her mind needs a second to catch up with his, their actions. She has gone stiff; there is not one single muscle on her body that is not tense as a string.

 _Okay, Laura. Relax. This is Bill. It's going to be OK._

She releases all the air she was holding. Her body loosens, goes limp again.

He starts.

He grips her hips tight so that she cannot wriggle out. Laura's elbows find the desk and she arches, letting her head fall backwards, her lips parted, her eyelids tightly pressed together. Her hair falls behind her like an auburn curtain, its tips almost brushing the surface of the desk.

"Gods, you're beautiful like this."

His whisper adds up to the fire building in her belly. Her breathing soon becomes a panting and then turns nearly erratic. There is a thick fog surrounding her but she… this is not OK. This is not what it is supposed to be. She needs… she needs him to stop, she needs to make a point. The effort is so huge that she fears she might break when she cracks her eyes open and turns her flushed face to him.

"Bill, this… not about me… I want you to…"

Bill smiles his most tender smile, and it is so very his, and it bathes her with warmth, and it makes him impossible to contradict.

"I'm enjoying this too, Laura. I want this. Please."

She thus gets knocked down before she even manages to put up a fight. Laura holds his gaze one more second before surrendering with a deep exhale. If he wants to see her like this, to have her like this, so be it. She closes her eyes, turns her face up again.

His grip on her hips tightens again as he works her. His fingers become resolute, intense, burning. He wants her to take this; she is just not sure she can. She gasps and starts shaking. Her arms flexed behind her, sustaining her weight against the desk, are quickly becoming jelly and their strength is running out by the second. She will not last much longer.

"There, Laura."

His voice is grave, determined, and so very warm. It sends a new rush of fire through her veins.

"Gods…"

Bill uses more force; she can barely rock her hips against his rhythm now.

She cannot take it any longer.

Laura collapses.

Laura collapses in a shocking silence, too spent to even scream; a long, muffled whimper her only concession to the peak of her pleasure. She feels both dead and alive in a universe which has just exploded. She does not know who she is anymore. When her breathing calms down a little and reality starts breaking through her numbness, she realizes she is no longer supporting her weight on her elbows against the desk: Bill is holding her flush to his chest, sustaining her, his arms wrapped around her waist and back, nuzzling her neck, shushing her quietly.

A lone tear rolls down her cheek. Bill kisses it.

He rocks them gently, pushing the swivel chair from side to side with his feet.

Gradually, she lets herself relax in his embrace.

When she finally turns her face to meet his eyes, she can see every ounce of her own emotion reflected in his dark pupils. He is as moved as she is, as enthralled as she is.

"Most beautiful thing I've ever seen." He mutters.

Laura bites her lower lip, lifts a hand to his cheek.

"We're not done yet."

His gaze is deep, intense.

"But not here."

Laura acquiesces.

Bill takes her hands in his and they both get up in unison. His arm slides across her waist as they turn around. They head for the rack, only to stop abruptly after a couple of steps: the deck is covered with splinters, a mine field which certainly cannot be crossed barefoot. Bill hesitates, scans the space searching for a clear path.

"This way."

He goes first, taking the risk upon himself; Laura leans on his arm, proceeding safely behind him, laying her own plants on the same spots Bill's feet have just occupied.

Bill sits on the rack and gets rid of his underwear. Standing before him, Laura reaches for the hook of her bra. His hand on her forearm stops her.

"No. Let me."

He pulls down at her and parts his legs to clear a space for her to sit between them. She feels his fingers pushing her underwear off her body; unhooking her bra and letting the straps fall off her shoulders. She shakes the garment off. His arm then slides around her waist, closing the circle, claiming her. Laura feels his other hand brushing her hair aside, clearing her neck for him.

She gasps. He has not even touched her there yet.

He does a moment later, his warm lips making contact on the base of her neck, suckling gently, drawing a pattern; insisting on the most sensitive spot that he easily identifies when she shivers head to toes.

"You taste so good, Laura."

She whimpers lowly in response. If only his voice, his words would not have this effect on her. If only she could manage to keep some control, some agency over her emotions, her sensations. She cannot even regret it; you need to have some willpower left for that. She had thought she would provide him with a measure of pleasure, a way to find release, and the emotional connection he needed; she finds herself just giving in, intoxicated, surrounded by his aura.

And thus doing exactly that: giving him what he needs.

She feels Bill shift back and pull at her waist. She follows him and scoots back on the mattress, swinging her legs up. They lie down on their side. She leans her head on the pillow and feels him spooning her from behind, adjusting his body to hers. One of his arms circles her hips, his strong hand covering her lower belly. The other sneaks through the space between her neck and her shoulder and finds one of her breasts. His lips return to her neck.

Her senses overload as he works on her body. Her eyes fall shut and she moans softly. She realizes he will just take this to the very end in all intensity, and he will not let her escape until they are both drained, spent, satisfied. She is powerless, enclosed in his will, his strength, his sorrow, his desperation.

That was her plan all along.

She just… never thought it would affect her like this.

It is okay. She trusts him.

She keeps trusting him when he finally takes her, and now he is all around, and inside, he is everywhere and she cracks one eye open to try and regain some measure of reality but the universe has been reduced to here, now, and him; to this spot where everything is happening.

Everything that matters.

And now he starts moving and she relaxes against his chest; and his arms close tighter around her when he feels her going suppler, more malleable, melting in his embrace.

Bill moves faster, deeper, rougher now. He is losing control. She closes her eyes again, gives in to the sensation, focuses on the feeling of his muscles flexing, inside and around; on his ragged breath caressing the side of her neck, on the grunts coming out his throat.

Suddenly, a sharp pain kicks the air out of her lungs. She closes her eyes with force.

 _Okay. This was to be expected._

She lets the pang subside; she breathes in again.

At this point she is not sure Bill has noticed her moment of distress.

He wraps his arms around her torso and arms. Just like that, she finds herself immobilized; her entire body is an extension of his now. One of her fists grabs the sheet, desperate for something to hold on to.

Bill is out of control now. He pushes and pushes and is beyond noticing her rhythm or her responses.

Laura screams.

Laura screams and he will not stop. He just cannot and he will not, until he screams himself, low and deep against her ear, and his arms tighten so much around her that she can barely breathe, and he shakes like a mountain during an earthquake, dragging her along with him as he crumbles.

Tears flow down her cheeks. Sobs wrack her entire frame. She does not belong to herself anymore; her old self is left behind like a discarded skin, it must be lying on the mattress, somewhere between their bodies, soaked from their sweat, wrinkled from their frantic movements, from his thrusts, from her wriggling; reduced to ashes by their fire.

Bill's panicked voice comes from behind her neck.

"You're crying. Gods, Laura, you're crying."

She cannot respond. His words register with her but she cannot utter a sound.

His arms around her relax at last. She feels a hand brushing her hair aside to gain access to her face. A second later, his fingers stroke her cheek, catching the tears that refuse to stop falling.

"Did I hurt you?"

"No..."

Her reply comes out shaken, spent, barely more than a sigh.

She cannot explain. But no, it is not the pain that has her like this; drained, overwhelmed, mind-boggled, speechless.

So very frightened.

Slowly, Laura turns around in his arms. She allows him the full sight of her tear-flooded eyes and face. She lifts her watery gaze to his; an improbable smile decides to show up on her lips. His eyes soften; a small concerned frown appears between his brows.

He is trying to decide if she is saying the truth.

After a second, Bill pulls her flush against his chest. She cuddles into him willingly, letting herself calm down in his warm embrace. He rocks her, strokes her bare back, kisses her hair tenderly.

"I love you, Laura."

Her body stiffens despite herself. Bill is in no good condition; maybe he has just said something he does not really feel, or want to say; a confession triggered by what they have just done.

She lifts an insecure gaze, seeking for a clue in his expression.

She finds it. He is not lying. He is not wrong. His pupils do not waver.

And he is a hundred per cent himself.

"I do."

Her gut clenches.

With a sigh, she lowers her face and buries her turmoil in the crook of his neck.

She feels a kiss pressed to her hairline. His arms create a safe cocoon for her.

So safe that she is scared.

"You will regret this tomorrow".

There is no reproach, no accusation in his tone. No remorse, either. Maybe just a wistful echo.

"No."

She swallows the lump in her throat; her fingers caress his chest.

"No, Bill. I won't."

Or maybe yes, but she is not lying, though. She will not regret it, not in the sense he means. It's this feeling of… she has loosened herself pretending it was for him. And it was for him, indeed: otherwise she would have kept a firm grip on her own desire. But now it has happened and she… she does not know what this is all about anymore. She had thought she would still be herself, feel like herself through it, she had thought… she had expected… she would be in control, she would lead him, she… she does not know who she was fooling. And this man… it's all about him, but then again, she knew that already, didn't she? She knew what her own feelings were when she came in. She has known long before that. She knew, but this…

She is scared, but not of him. She is scared of herself. She could pretend before but now she has caught a glimpse, now she cannot close the door to her own soul… now she can no longer behave like it is not there. Deeper, stronger, more powerful than she would have ever admitted.

She will not regret it. She is not ashamed.

It is just that this is new. And almost too much.

She just does not know what she will do with this tomorrow.

For now, she tries to feel safe again.

She knows how to do it.

She cuddles a little further into him.


	2. All that we are

**Thank you, Christine Rogers, for saying the words that inspired this second chapter.**

Galactica hums.

Galactica hums and she finds it comforting as she lies on Bill's rack in the middle of the night. With the hapless exception of New Caprica, it has been years since they last were able to tell the day from the night without looking at a clock; it is always dark out there.

She has not checked the hour for a while but she has a vague idea. She knows what the time was when she arrived in these quarters yesterday (it must be yesterday already). She also has some kind of feeling about how long she has been awake.

It is always dark out there and also in here, and Galactica hums and she has been letting it lull her to a relaxed state for quite a while now. Colonial One does not hum like this; its laments are sharp, metallic. Somehow they are easy to ignore during the waking hours, when the ship is brimming with activity. At the end of the day, however, floating in the deep silence of the universe, sometimes disquiet seeps into her bones with every creak. But Galactica has this low, deep, constant rumble that reminds her of the ocean, that brings her memories of the wind blowing among the trees, of the traffic down on the street of Caprica City where she lived for so many years. It takes her back home.

Or maybe not. Maybe this feeling of being back home does not have to do with Galactica's sounds, after all.

Maybe it is all because of him.

Laura looks down. There he is.

He is sound asleep; his breathing even, his head resting on her shoulder, his arm draped across her belly. They are both naked under the blanket and his body radiates warmth that she is grateful for. She always feels warm around him. She cannot quite say when it started to happen (beyond her conscience, even despite her will) but it is familiar to her now.

It was not always like this.

Laura rolls her head to the side on the pillow to catch a better glimpse of his face. She observes every detail, memorizes every crease on his cheeks, every wrinkle around his eyes, the way his lids flutter as he sleeps and dreams (and she hopes his dreams are peaceful, and she would like to know what they are about so badly anyway), the true lines of his lips when they are relaxed, unguarded. She strokes his back and his hair absentmindedly. Stretching her neck, she places a kiss on his forehead.

Even in the middle of the emotional turmoil that their recent actions triggered, and that has kept her up for hours now, there is no other place in the universe where she would rather be.

Her hand goes out of its path and traces a different line on his back. Bill startles. She must have hit a sensitive spot. He lets out a low grunt and blinks, confused. A few seconds pass before his surroundings register with him, memories returning along with his consciousness. Laura looks down at him and smiles apologetically.

"I woke you. Sorry."

"It's OK." His voice is hoarse; he clears off his throat, shifting off her body and rubbing his forehead with his palm in an effort to dissipate the fog. "What's the time?"

"I'm not sure. Around 1am, I'd say."

He stills for a second; then he drops the hand with which he is covering his eyes and looks up at her. Something in her voice, maybe, has given her away. She cannot be sure, but she can tell he has noticed.

"You haven't slept at all."

It is not a question. It is a realization.

"Hmmm. Can't." She mumbles.

He pushes himself up on the mattress. His face is next to hers now. He stares at her, his head leaning on his palm, his elbow resting on the pillow. Suddenly, he is wide awake. His ocean blue eyes bore into hers. Laura draws her gaze back to the ceiling.

Away from his scrutiny.

"Are you OK?"

His tone is smooth, downright concerned; it penetrates her ears like a caress. She does not reply immediately. A second too late, she realizes that not replying is more eloquent than any reply.

"Laura…"

"Yes." She reacts, hurriedly replies. "Yes, I'm OK. It's just…"

She shrugs and shakes her head. She is having trouble figuring this out, let alone explaining it to him. She is just not ready to do it; she does not want him to worry, though.

Bill waits. Even without looking back at him she can feel his gaze on her, dark and intense. His palm rests on her belly; his thumb rubs lazy circles on the skin around her navel. It is such an intimate touch. It is soothing, comforting.

"I hurt you."

Again, it is not a question.

She shakes her head side to side, frustrated.

"Bill, I… it just happened. It's OK. Really."

Here it is. Her admission.

For having been awake reflecting on this for hours, she should have been much sharper in her reply.

His eyes soften; the blue light within them turns sad, regretful.

"I'm sorry, Laura. I got so… carried away. I'm sorry I… left you alone."

He lifts his hand to her cheek, threads his fingers on the loose, messy bangs he finds there; strokes her quietly.

Frak this man and his ability to read her. Frak him for sending her walls crumbling with just his touch. He will be her undoing.

She turns to him. Her gaze is suddenly watery; her voice is, too.

"We both got to that point. It was… just a moment, really, at the very end." She pauses, swallows the lump in her throat. "It just happened, Bill." She repeats, more convincing. "I can deal with it."

"Means I gave you something you now need to deal with."

Laura sighs in defeat.

 _You stubborn frakker._

"I just… you… suddenly you were away from me. It… hurt but… But I knew what was going on. And I know you, I know you'd never hurt me... I can accept it, Bill. It was not that bad. I'll be OK."

Now that she has voiced it, she realizes she was not sure of it until this very moment. Speaking things aloud has this way to clear up your mind.

"Well, I'm not OK with it."

She bites her lip. She rolls over to the side, mirroring his posture, facing him.

She will not let him drown in guilt over this. It is stupid. They face much more terrible things on a daily basis.

"Bill…" She lifts a hand to his cheek, caresses it lovingly. "Bill, look at me. I know you. I trust you. A little hurt is not that much. The moment came and passed. I… I didn't have to stop you. I didn't want you to. And you were back there with me again as soon as it was over. You're here with me now. All is fine. Besides…" She trails off, then cracks a nearly mischievous smile. "I also had my fair share of pleasure. I'm not sure if you remember. And I have you to thank for that."

He chuckles. She can see his frown soften, his muscles relax a little. Finally, a hint of acceptance crosses his features. Then he turns serious again; the concerned frown reappears between his brows. He cradles her head in his big palm.

"Then what is it, Laura? What's wrong?"

Laura can feel the light in her own eyes flicker. She drops her gaze. After a second, she releases a breath that is almost a sigh.

And here she thought for a second that she could get away with it so easily.

She hesitates, pulls back a little.

"Laura, please. Talk to me."

She does not reply. After a few seconds she parts her lips, only to close them again as if she would want to say something but did not know what exactly, or could not really bring herself to it, or would have thought better. Her effort to summon up the strength she needs only makes her eyes well up with tears.

Bill waits quietly, stroking her head in silence. She knows he will not push as much as she knows he will not relent. Quiet determination is his thing when it comes to her. He will give her all the time she needs until she finally finds a way to explain, to guide him to the crux of the matter.

That makes it so much worse. Tenderness makes it so much harder. And his loving patience and attention make it impossible for her to escape.

"It's…" she stammers. "Us. It's us." She weakly admits at last.

Bill's gaze deepens, trying to grasp what she means. Pray to the gods that he will not ask her to elaborate. The air goes thick with unmade confessions and unexpressed fears.

Finally, he releases a sigh.

Okay. He has figured out.

"Laura, you don't have to say anything just because I did. You don't owe me a thing. I said what I said because it is the truth and because I wanted you to know."

Both things. She knows both things all too well: what he feels for her, and why he spoke those three words. She also knows her true problem was not with his words: it is the intensity of her own emotions that she is having trouble dealing with. She can no longer pretend they are under control. For the gods' sake, she will need to bring back the President in just a few hours and right now she is still one big mess.

She turns her head to him.

"I know." She nods, biting back a sob. "I know."

"But…"

Despite the hard time she is having, she cannot help but chuckle. He knows her so frakking well. Along with that brief laughter, a tear escapes her lids. None of them can be bothered; they let it fall quietly.

"But I don't want you to feel alone, either. Because… you're not alone, Bill."

Her last words are barely audible, almost a whisper.

That makes them so much stronger, so much more meaningful.

This is as far as she can go for now. This is the closer she can afford to get to an admission. He personifies everything she now understands she never knew before, everything she never felt, everything she never had a chance to be. He makes everything new, both around and inside her.

She needs some time to come to terms with that. To figure out what she, what they should do from now on.

She just hopes… she just hopes this is enough for now. Enough for him to understand; good enough for him to accept it. She shoots him a questioning look.

His reaction tells her what she needs to know.

He waits a few seconds, letting her words sink in. Then he hovers over her and she mirrors his movement, lying back on the mattress again. Their glances remain locked, lost in one another. He gives her a small, tender smile. She replies in kind, her eyes shiny, full of water; her features relaxing gradually. She lifts a hand, threads her fingers in his hair. It is dense and soft.

Just like him.

They stay like that for a few moments, drinking each other in, enjoying their connection, doing what they do best: let their eyes do the talking.

"I know I'm not alone, Laura." He replies at last. "What you did last night... What you did for me... It's huge. Unconceivable. And it made me feel alive. It brought me back. I don't know how to thank you for that."

It is Bill's eyes that are full of water now.

Mourning the loss will take much longer for sure. However, she can tell it is true: he is back. She managed to rescue him from hell and bring him back to the world of the living. Even if he will still be visiting that dark, grieving place often, this man who is holding her in his arms right now is definitely Bill.

Her Bill.

She smiles. She does not say a word. It is not necessary.

"I just needed you back." She mildly jokes.

"You're so beautiful." He mumbles, like he has not heard her.

She feels her skin flush. She smiles knowingly, strokes his hair, raises an eyebrow.

"Bill…"

It is a weak, playful admonishment; she is beyond pretending she is not grateful, or moved.

"Let me show you."

His face moves closer. Her lids flutter shut. With that, she kicks the universe out; she does not want to miss an ounce of sensation when his lips cover hers.

They do.

They do, and it is refreshing like snowflakes on her feverish skin, calming both her thirst and her ache; and it is also burning like a low, persistent fire. She parts her lips and welcomes him in, lets him savor her, keeps his head in place between both of her hands, and suddenly she realizes he is not taking anything, he is just giving, caressing, shedding the warmth of his love inside her mouth to fill up her entire body. She moans and he leans a little further into her, and his palm rests against the side of her face, and she arches into him, seeking to deepen their connection, craving the nearness. She welcomes every ounce of his weight on her body; she adjusts to it willingly. Bill's lips shift and explore and insist a little further when she makes a tiny little sound. At some point she could swear she savors a mixture of regret and sorrow but the moment she notices it the energy shifts again and she finds herself showered in affection.

The past is gone. He cannot make up for last night but he is filling up the only hole left by the things that went wrong.

And she feels his, and it is a safe place to be.

Bill pulls back slowly. The moment she cracks hers open hers she plunges in his loving, watery gaze. She reads his sorrow as if it were written on the pages of a book. She does not ask: there is so much to grieve anyway. She bites her lip, smiles at him, strokes his cheeks with her thumbs.

Bill releases a shaky sigh.

All is fine. They both know, now.

Bill lifts his weight off her and lies down on his back, pulling her along with him. She adjusts every inch of her own body to his bulk: she does not want a single crack between their bodies through which the cold can sneak in. She lays her head on his shoulder, drapes her arm across his chest, tangles one of her legs with one of his. He pulls her closer, kisses her forehead.

Silence falls over them like a gentle cover. Only their breathings and Galactica's hum again. She must have forgotten it, lost it for a short while, but it was always here; it was never gone.

She is so sure of that now.

Her fading distress leaves room for other questions to populate her mind.

"What will we do tomorrow?"

Bill takes his time to answer.

"I don't know." He finally admits.

In truth, she does not need him to tell her what to do. Rather, she draws relief from the fact that he is as unsure as she is.

They are in sync.

"We'll figure out as we go. No matter what, we have each other."

"Hmm." A tiny affirmative sound leaves her chest.

This thing between them makes everything so much harder, complex, and frightening; but also so much easier, so much more meaningful. It makes their life so much more worth living.

She would never give this up.

She could never do it even if she tried.

"It's a blessing."

"What's a blessing?" His gruff voice reaches her ears, warms her inside.

"Us."

Bill's hand, which has been caressing her spine up and down all this time, stills half-way.

He seems to be pondering her reply. It does not make her uneasy, though: she does not need to hear his response to know what he thinks. She already knows.

"It is."

His low rumble caressing her ears. Another kiss pressed into her hair. His hand resumes its gentle movement.

Laura lets her lids fall shut, smiles contentedly.

Slowly, sleep claims her.


End file.
